Her father had not been there. He had said later that he could not face it, that it was best never to see the house again rather than intensify the agony of saying goodbye.
Carina had not really understood what had happened until she and her mother had re-joined him in London and then he had been so upset when he spoke of it that her mother had forbidden the subject to be raised.
“It is done, my darling,” she had said to Carina. “It’s cruel that we have to leave something we hold so dear, but it is done, and we can do nothing about it. We must have courage, we have to be brave. Remember always in life that courage counts more than anything else. It is only that which gives you strength to face the future.”
Carina had tried to remember her words a year later when her mother died and she was left alone with her father.
She thought now how much Claverly had meant to her and she found herself understanding the dark misery that she had seen in Lord Lynche’s eyes and the torture she had heard in his voice.
‘Why could I not have helped him more?’ she asked herself.
As they had sat in the kitchen in the house he loved, she remembered that it had seemed for a moment that the burden and devastation had slipped from him.
He had praised her cooking and laughed with Dipa when one of the kittens fell into the saucer of milk they had put for the mother cat.
He had seemed young then. But unhappiness had enveloped him again almost like a mask and he had slipped away into a reserve and coldness that made him seem unapproachable.
What was happening downstairs?
Carina felt that she could hardly bear to be left out of it all. She walked towards the bell, wondering if she could ring it and ask for Mrs. Barnstaple and guess by the older woman’s voice if she knew anything.
Then Carina told herself that she was behaving in an undignified manner. It was not for her to pry into her employer’s affairs. When she was told to pack her trunk would be soon enough for her to know what was happening.
Dipa woke when the afternoon was well advanced and, because the sunshine of the morning had turned to rain, Carina decided not to take him out again.
She tried to give him a few lessons, more as a distraction for herself than for any benefit to him, but he was bored and would not concentrate.
Soon they were both sitting on the floor playing with the tin soldiers, making them march under the table and round the chair back into the box again.
The evening passed slowly.
It came and went, but there was no sign of anyone save the footman who had carried up their tea, the housemaid who came in to draw the blinds and the youngest footman who brought up the oil lamps.
Carina ordered hot water for Dipa’s bath and, although he protested, she washed him well.
Then she put him into his little nightshirt and lifted him into bed.
“A story – tell me a story,” he pleaded.
She told him one that was rather long and rambling because her mind kept slipping away onto other things and before she reached the end, a happy ending because all good stories end that way, she found that he was asleep.
She tucked him in and opened his window a little more and took away the oil lamp.
Back in the nursery, Carina wondered how she was going to pass the rest of the evening with her curiosity still unsatisfied.
She found herself listening for a footfall. She wondered, until she felt she must scream the question aloud, what was happening below?
‘Why,’ she thought, ‘does he not need me now? What is happening? Oh God, what is happening?’
She found herself walking up and down the room and then sternly disciplined herself to sit down at the table and sew a button on Dipa’s coat.
At seven o’clock a footman appeared with her supper. He set it down on the table and she glanced at him quickly. Had he noticed anything untoward downstairs and, if so, would he tell her about it?
“It’s a nasty evening,” she said conversationally.
“Aye, ’tis still rainin’,” he answered with the strong accent of a country boy.
“It’s a pity after such a nice morning,” Carina persisted.
“Ah well, the crops need rain,” the boy replied.
“You come from the country?” she asked unnecessarily.
“That’s right. I live down in the village. I’m only here temporary like because they was short-handed.”
He glanced down at the tray.
“Got everything you want, miss?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Carina replied.
He went from the room, pulling the door noisily to behind him.
Carina sighed.
She was not hungry and she knew that she would feel sick if she tried to eat the boiled chicken and rice that she saw was set on her tray in a covered dish. But because she felt that the chef who had prepared the meal would be offended, she put some food on her plate. But she merely toyed with it and, after drinking a glass of water, she went back to her sewing.
It was only when it was finished and she could not find anything else to occupy her mind that she remembered she had gone downstairs to find a book. She wished now with all her heart that the valet had called her to the rescue after she had found one and not before.
‘If only I had something to read,’ she told herself. ‘Perhaps it would distract my brain from all this wondering and puzzling over other people’s affairs.’
But she knew that this was wishful thinking. It was indeed most unlikely that anything would distract her at the moment.
Finally, although it was still early, she took off her dress and put on a soft wool dressing gown trimmed with lace.
As there was nothing else to do, she would brush her hair as Nanny had always told her to do – one hundred strokes in the morning and the same at night.
She took out the pins and let the golden tresses fall around her shoulders and then because it was cold in the bedroom she went back into the day nursery and sat down in front of the fire.
She brushed and brushed until electric sparks almost seemed to come from her hair, making it fly round her face.
She rose to her feet to go back into her bedroom, but at that moment the door opened.
She turned sharply and saw that it was a manservant. She was about to tell him that he should knock before entering when she saw that in his hand he carried a large silver wine cooler in which was resting a bottle of champagne.
He walked across the room and with a bang set it down in the centre of the table.
As he turned his face towards her, she recognised the man she had seen when she had entered the house by the back door. She was certain that she was not mistaken as she was good at remembering a face.
“With Sir Percy’s compliments, miss,” the man said jauntily. “And he’ll be up presently to help you drink it.”
His eye closed in a wink as he spoke.
For a moment Carina’s breath was taken away by the sheer impertinence of it. But before she could find words in which to tell him to take the champagne away, the man said,
“I thought I recognised you when you passed me in the passage. Your name’s Claverly, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean? How do you know?” Carina asked sharply.
“You gave me quite a start, you did,” he answered.
His tone was still familiar and yet in some curious way there was a touch of respect.
“As you came along, I was certain I’d seen you somewhere before and then when you’d gone up the stairs, I remembered. ‘Lady Claverly,’ I says to meself, ‘that’s who it is. Lady Claverly or I’m a Dutchman.’”
“Why do you think I am Lady Claverly?” Carina questioned.
“Because I’ve seen your portrait,” he answered. “And a beautiful one it was too. Couldn’t take me eyes off it, I don’t know why. Just seemed to get under me skin, if you knows what I mean. Stood in front of it for hours on end, I did. And then, when I sees you in the flesh, it was like seein’
a ghost. ‘Lady Claverly,’ I says to myself, ‘not in a picture, but on her two feet!’”
“But I am not Lady Claverly – she was my mother,” Carina said. “And where have you seen this portrait?”
“At your home, of course. Claverly Court. Where else would I be likely to see it?” the man enquired.
“You – were at Claverly Court?” Carina asked wonderingly.
And then, suddenly, her voice was almost strangled in her throat and she asked,
“You are Sir Percy Rockley’s man – did you go to Claverly Court with him?”
“That’s right. Went down to have a look at the place. Nice little estate. He took a real fancy to it, he did. ‘I think we’ll keep this one, Jenkins,’ he says. Quite a compliment, in a way, he very seldom keeps a place. Sells ’em at once.”
“You mean – ” Carina said and her voice seemed to come from a long distance away “ – you mean Sir Percy Rockley took over Claverly from my father?”
“That’s right, that must have been it,” the manservant answered. “I thought at first when I saw you that you were your mother, the portrait was just like you. I’ve kept thinkin’ about it I have, I don’t know why. Somethin’ about the way it was painted, her golden hair, just like yours, against the blue sky.”
“So it was Sir Percy who won – who took Claverly from us,” Carina said, almost beneath her breath.
“Of course, it was only one of the many places he has won,” the manservant went on. “Amazin’ he is. No one like him! House after house, estate after estate. ‘What are you goin’ to do with them all?’ I asked him when first they started comin’ in. ‘I’m goin’ to sell ’em, Jenkins,’ he answered, ‘in my own time and at my own price’.” The manservant paused. “Clever. Most gamblers don’t plan anythin’ out. They just ask for the money!”
“Sir Percy and Claverly – I had no idea,” Carina said in a whisper.
“Naturally, it’s always a bit of a shock when people find their homes have gone,” the man continued. “But it’s luck, just luck. And I always says Sir Percy has the luck of the devil!”
With an effort, Carina gripped hold of herself.
“Tell me,” she said, “ – tell me something I want to know.”
“Ask away,” the manservant smiled. “I’m pretty good with the answers. Sir Percy trusts me. ‘I’ll leave it to you, Jenkins,’ he says, ‘you’ll see to it.’ And then it’s left in my hands to get things a-rollin’.”
“What I want to know,” Carina said, “is did – Sir Percy win – another house recently – a house in London – number 89 Park Street?”
Jenkins leant against the table and scratched his head.
“Now, let me see,” he said. “There was one in Portman Square, a shop in Wardour Street, a house in Hamilton Terrace. Yes, now that you come to mention it, there was one in Park Street. 89, you say? I remember it. A big drawin’ room with white panellin’, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Carina answered quietly.
“But, of course,” Jenkins exclaimed. “Now it’s all a-comin’ back to me. A bit of trouble, wasn’t there, with the owner? There, fool that I was, I never connected the two. Sir Hugo Claverly! I don’t know why it never struck me when I heard about him. Well, I’m sorry, miss, indeed I am – ”
He looked embarrassed and scratched his head again.
“ – But that’s life, so to speak. One goes up and the other goes down.”
He stopped, for Carina had sat down in a chair and, bending her head, had covered her face with her hands.
He stood looking for a moment and then edged awkwardly towards the door.
“Sorry, miss,” he said again. “Keep your pecker up. What can’t be cured must be endured, as me old mother used to say.”
He hesitated at the door, looked as if he was going to say something else, then changed his mind and went.
For a moment Carina could hardly feel or think. She was very still. Her eyes were closed behind the shielding darkness of her fingers.
At length she rose to her feet.
The room was empty, save for the bottle of champagne that stood flamboyantly in the centre of the table.
With a gesture of horror she turned away from it and put out her hand towards the bell-pull.
She was about to pull it, but stopped, feeling that she could not possibly trust her voice to make explanations or even give an order for it to be removed.
Instead she turned and ran towards her bedroom, fighting the tears that she knew at any moment would shake her like a tempest.
She shut her bedroom door and felt for the key. Then, with trembling fingers, searched again.
It could not be true!
She crossed the room and picked up the oil lamp and brought it to the door.
The key was not in the lock, it was not on the floor – it had gone!
Very slowly she put the oil lamp down where she had taken it from the table at the side of the bed.
She stared at the door and now the tears had gone from her eyes and were replaced by another expression.
For a moment she stood still, thinking.
And then, as if her mind was made up, she went to one of the trunks that stood in the corner and started to search through it
Most of her luggage had been taken away after it was unpacked, but this trunk contained many things that had belonged to her mother and, although she knew that she was never likely to want anything from it at The Castle, she could not bear for them to be out of sight.
She found what she was seeking, drew it out and set it down on the bed. Then she crossed the room to the wardrobe, opened it and after some deliberation chose a dress.
She dressed herself slowly and methodically in a gown of black chiffon with a cloud of white net framing her shoulders.
It was an exquisite expensive dress that had belonged to her mother and made her look a little older and at the same time lifted her from the class of a quiet demure Governess to that of an elegant woman of fashion.
She went to the dressing table and swept her hair high on her head, arranging it not as she had always worn it herself, but as her mother had worn hers with a style that had been essentially her own.
Then, with fingers that were cold but did not tremble, Carina opened her jewel case, took out her mother’s pearls and clasped them round her neck.
She wanted to cry as she put them on and yet her lips were set in a hard line and about her chin there was a determination and strength that few people had seen before.
Then proudly, as if she was going to a ball or a distinguished assembly, Carina crossed the room and, bringing out a chair, set it exactly opposite the door.
With a glance at herself in the mirror, she walked towards the bed and picked up what lay there.
It was a box set with mother-of-pearl, a beautiful piece of workmanship, which Carina remembered had lain in a glass case in the drawing room at their house in London.
“It was given to me by the Grand Duke Ivor of Russia,” her mother had told her in a soft voice. “Your father and I had been visiting St. Petersburg and, when we came to depart on the long journey home, the Grand Duke brought me this box and put it into my hand.
“‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I hope that you never have to use what this contains, but I should feel happier if you had it with you for your protection against wolves or even two-legged enemies.’ Your father and I laughed at him for his fears, but I have always treasured it.”
Carina could hear her mother’s voice telling the tale as she undid the clasp, which was set with amethysts, and opened the box.
Inside, lying on a bed of purple velvet was a small exquisitely fashioned pistol. The handle was made of mother-of-pearl, also ornamented with amethysts, but the barrel was of pure steel. There was nothing fancy about the bullets, which lay in a separate compartment of the box.
Carina primed and loaded the pistol and, holding it in her hand, sat down on the chair, which she had put in the centre of
the room.
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was getting late and she felt that she might have to wait a long time. She arranged herself, sitting upright and alert, her head held high.
Her fingers went once or twice to her mother’s pearls as if to give herself courage. But otherwise her face was quite impassive and, save for the dilated pupils of her eyes, she showed no sign of any agitation or nervousness.
The time went by slowly. There was silence except for the tick of the clock and occasionally the sound of the coals falling in the fireplace in the nursery.
At length, a little after midnight, Carina heard the sound she had been waiting for – a footstep, sure and unhurried, coming up the stairs.
There was nothing surreptitious about it, nothing that conveyed the impression of a man creeping to a clandestine meeting but rather a man triumphant, sure that he would gain what he wanted and certain that he was invincible.
She heard the footsteps cross the nursery floor and the handle of the door was turned, as she had watched it turn the night before when she knew that the lock would hold.
Now it opened and in the doorway stood Sir Percy, just as she expected to see him. The light from the lamp glittered on the diamond studs in his stiff white shirt.
He must have come straight from the card table. There was a half-smoked cigar between his fingers and his lips curved at her with that odious sensual smile that was echoed by the lust in his eyes.
For a moment he only saw her waiting for him.
Then, with an obvious start, he perceived what she held in her hand.
“Come in, Sir Percy, come in,” Carina said and her voice was clear and steady. “I have been waiting for you.”
“What is this? What are you doing?” Sir Percy asked. “Put that damned thing away! Don’t be a fool, girl!”
“I have been waiting for you,” Carina said again, “because I have just learned something of tremendous importance. I have learned from Jenkins that it was you – who k-killed my father.”
The Fire of Love Page 16